


about as subtle as an earthquake, i know

by hissingmiseries



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Dotty Cotton Deserves The World, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Late Night Conversations, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-27 02:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20752757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hissingmiseries/pseuds/hissingmiseries
Summary: Dotty shrugs. He has the face of somebody who has a story or two to tell. "You're a Mitchell," she says. "I've been told to keep a wide berth of all of you." But it's not like she's going to listen; Walford is too small a place to hold a grudge, unless you want to spend all your time alone, and Dotty is alright now. The monster under her bed has died."You sound pretty messy as well, to be honest," Ben points out.She smiles, properly, for the first time that day. Maybe hearing his stories wouldn't be the worst use of her afternoon. "I suppose we oughta be mates, then."Long story short, Dotty Cotton comes home and somehow ends up running a bar with Ben Mitchell.





	about as subtle as an earthquake, i know

**Author's Note:**

> if dotty and ben aren’t partners in crime and running e20 together then what’s the fucking point @ eastenders
> 
> a little canon divergence in that ben is the owner of e20 once mel leaves and sharon has the sprog. dotty is bi bc of course she fucking is and ben/callum are in that awkward _idk u go next_ stage they've been in for the past decade. big thanks to the ballum gc for hyping this up and screaming about this universe with me ♥
> 
> p.s. i'm writing this before dotty has been introduced on the show sooo if she seems really ooc in hindsight it's bc i literally have no idea how to write her atm lmao i'm aiming for chaotic bisexual mess
> 
> **contains:** canon-typical themes and reference to canonical events (abusive parenting, addiction, etc.). ben/callum, mentions of ben/paul, bi!dotty. alcohol use+effects. mental illness talk, spec. dementia (re dot)+ptsd+depression.

-

Walford is fine. It's weird, because it's not how she remembers it being; it's not Scotland, everything smells different. The streets are differently shaped.

Even the air is different.

That's okay, she thinks. It would be really weird if the air was the same. Scotland was all cobbled streets and kebab shops and this is—this is her old home. The memories are a bit hazy but the pub is still standing, the cafe where her dad—yeah.

"Hey," Whitney (red hair now, pretty) says. "Wanna get a drink?"

Dotty says, "Okay," and they do shots and don't talk about: a) how her dad held them both hostage that one time; b) how she pushed Whit's little sister into a bin and let her get dumped in a lorry; and c) how she looks older and cockier and has a nose ring now but there's still something brittle behind her eyes and maybe there is behind Whit's, too.

It's ancient history, now. All of it.

Even the dad part, since he's pretty fucking dead—probably the one upside of this whole sorry mess, because Nick Cotton was the worst thing to happen to her heart. It was a long time ago but there are still nights sometimes where she looks at the photo frames on her shelf and thinks about what he made her do, the things she did in return. She was ten years old; she'd gotten used to feeling helpless, but that didn't make it hurt any less. It just made the ache more familiar.

She's twenty now.

She's tough shit.

Dotty does shots and goes home with someone she probably shouldn't go home with but it's Walford, she's a stranger here. It's not like anybody will care, or keep track, or whatever.

It's not _home_ as such but she feels like she can say it's nice to be home. The tube station is familiar, she has that one bag that she slings over her shoulder; moving around a lot, you learn to pack light. 

Dot hugs her every morning, and she smells—god, she smells like herself, like strong tea and cigarette smoke and the faint church-smell that follows her everywhere.

She presses her face into her grandma's shoulder and says, "I missed you so much."

Dot holds her close and says, "I missed you, too." She was never the type of girl who found shelter in the shape of a hug, but it's strange how Dot feels like paper, now.

-

She doesn't want to ask but Dot tells her anyway; presses a kiss to her cheek and says, "I'm sorry, love, it was an overdose." But then she pauses and says, "There's a lot I'll tell you one day." As if. Dot's never been good at keeping a secret.

Nowadays Dot is even smaller, even frailer. She looks like life has drained her of her light.

"Okay," Dotty says. She puts her bag down in the spare room and pulls the sleeves of her jacket down past her knuckles; sometimes she just needs a minute, y'know? A minute or two as Kirsty, just give her a second. She'll be back to herself soon enough.

She heard a lot. It is Walford after all; it's always on the news for one thing or the other, an explosion or a bus crash or a body found in a crushed-up car. Facebook let her know who got married and who died and stuff but none of it really mattered in the end, because she was never going to go back. It wasn't a possibility. Nobody would want her there.

There was a hostage situation, though. Dotty watched every minute of it, glued to the television in her shitty little house. Her friends said _Dot, are you alright_ but she leaned in and frowned and listened harder, tried to recognise the names, the faces: someone called Hunter, waving a gun around in the Vic. Putting a bullet in some lad whose face she vaguely recognised if she squinted. It made her stomach feel all funny, even from all those miles away.

She called Dot, afterwards. It went to voicemail but she left a message: _grandma, it's me_. She almost said, _I love you_, but maybe not. Dot probably wouldn't have said it back.

She tossed her car keys in her hands. She stayed still.

Then Dot turned up on the doorstep. It was like something out of a film, honestly: she was there, with her coat and her cigarette and Dotty doesn't cry ever but she might have done, that day. Just a little.

-

Tiffany Butcher's tall, now. Gorgeous. She sees her on the Square and luckily Tiff doesn't recognise her, or at least doesn't show it; she's tucked into the crook of a boy's arm and they're laughing and she looks miles away from the bratty carrot top Dotty chucked in a bin that one time.

Dotty was never close with most of the other kids but she remembers them—little Liam, and Max's daughters and Lucy. Whit tells her some horror stories but Liam got out okay; he'll be big now, too. It's weird to think about, all these kids that are now people. People with hearts and minds and dreams.

Tiff's almost the same age Dotty is, a bit younger. Her hair is still bright orange.

Neither of them have changed, not really.

She buys milk from the shop. Patrick blinks at her from the newspaper stand and she smiles at him, tight-lipped and brief. Fucking Walford. Eight or nine years and everyone still knows who you are.

A lot of people have died. Peggy, Archie, Pat, Bradley. Jim. 

(Nick. She's trying not to think of him as _dad_, even less to think of him as dead.)

There are some new faces, too. Shirley Carter is at the bar of the Vic with a man with dark hair—_her son, Mick_, Dot says, somewhere in her memory. He looks kind enough and his accent makes her cackle and he makes her a gin and tonic on the house to say welcome back, even though he doesn't know her. _Family of Dot's is family of everyone. _

He doesn't look at her like she's a walking grenade, pin out. Like she's Nick Cotton's daughter. He looks at her like she's a person.

"Here for Dot, then?"

"She's my grandma," Dotty nods; she mentions university and Mick launches into a spiel about how his son went to uni here, too. "Feel like I've missed a lot."

He tilts his head and smirks. "Always kicking off around here, love. Blink and you're bound to miss something."

-

"Can I buy you a drink?" The man is short, with dark hair. He's wearing a tight shirt and smells like cologne, but like, last night's cologne, rubbed onto his neck from somebody else. There's a mischief to his eyes she's yet to see from anyone in this shitty little Square.

She blinks. Something clicks in her head. "You're the guy that got shot."

He pauses, hands curled around his pint glass. His eyes flick over her face like she's a puzzle, like he's trying to figure her out. "Don't tell me. Dotty Cotton."

"The one and only," she sighs, raising her empty glass. Fucking Walford.

But he's grinning—one corner of his mouth curved up in what can only be sheer delight. Lottery-winning, treasure-finding, _I know how the world's going to end _delight. He holds his hand out, "Ben Mitchell," and ah, that makes sense.

She takes his hand and shakes it. "Phil's lad, right?" Phil is an echoey memory but she remembers his anger, his drinking. A wolf in an old jacket with the smell of lager on his breath. It's safe to say Ben doesn't have the same effect, and she thinks that's probably a good thing.

"That's me." He slides onto the stool next to her; there's a bruise on his cheek, faded and yellow.

"He's still alive?" she asks, dry. 

Ben scoffs. "Just about." Up close, he looks a little more tired. The mention of his dad is like a poison dart and god, she knows what that feels like. "So go on, then," he continues, "what's Nick Cotton's daughter doing knocking 'round here?"

She tenses up a little, but the way he says it, the smirk on his lips—it doesn't feel like a threat. "Did someone say something about me?" she asks. "Or are you just nosy? Heard all the gossip?"

"Can't go two steps in this place without it," he says. "I'm assuming you've heard all the rumours about me."

Dotty shrugs. She hasn't, but he has the face of somebody who has a story or two to tell. "You're a Mitchell," she says. "I've been told to keep a wide berth of all of you." But it's not like she's going to listen; Walford is too small a place to hold a grudge, unless you want to spend all your time alone, and Dotty is alright now. The monster under her bed has died. 

"You sound pretty messy as well, to be honest," Ben points out. 

She smiles, properly, for the first time that day. Maybe hearing his stories wouldn't be the worst use of her afternoon. "I suppose we oughta be mates, then."

"I'll drink to that," he says, and Dotty points at her empty glass and says, _you'll have to buy me one first _and he does, double measure like a true gentleman—as if Ben Mitchell could ever be called such a thing.

-

"I want to live here," she says. "While I study. Not in the dorms."

Dot looks at her; she has sharp eyes, even now. Even when everything else about her is falling apart. "Don't you want to make friends though, Dotty? Go out, have fun."

She sighs, and leans in. Kisses Dot's forehead. "I've only just come back." _And I don't want to be alone. Not yet._

She is kind of tired of being alone.

"Would it be alright if I stayed?"

Dot puts her hand on her granddaughter's and smiles, just a little. "Of course it would," she says.

-

Mick offers her a job in the Vic. They've just lost a barmaid—Tina or something, she's moved on to the gay bar across the road which Dotty makes a mental note to check out later—and she's done bar work before but she doesn't take it. It feels weird, out of place. A mix of her dad potentially murdering one of the old landlords here (stuff like that sticks, y'know) and the steady stream of faces who pass through, ones with eyes she recognises, people who her dad wronged. 

Her explanation is choppy and half-arsed but Mick gets it. 

"It's alright, darling," he says; she can tell he has secrets, just like anybody else around here, but they haven't ruined him. He's still decent at heart. "I promise you, worse things have happened in here than anything your dad might've done."

_Wanna bet?_ she almost darts back, but then she remembers reading that article about Archie Mitchell being bludgeoned to death with the Queen Vic bust and yeah, okay, fair enough. It doesn't make it any better, though.

Then he says, "Any good at cocktails?" and she nods. "E20's hiring." His accent smooths out the _t_ and she's missed this, missed the way folk speak around here. She used to speak like that, all Cockney, all squeaky and devilish. 

"Did you just recommend me your competition?" Dotty smirks. Buying a drink for a pub landlord seems a bit pointless.

"It's ain't too flash, but if you're sticking around—" 

"What," she says, "you think I should?"

Mick shrugs. "If I were scared away by every geezer that's done me wrong, I'd be at the other end of the Channel by now." 

"Any of those geezers tried to make you kill someone?" she asks, pointedly; her eyebrows fly up and her voice drops to a whisper and Mick blinks like he's heard her wrong. Her chest goes all tight, just for a second—but this is Walford. There's always somebody round the corner, waiting to one-up your tragedy.

"You didn't do it, did you?" he prompts, leaning in. It strikes her just how many secrets have been exchanged over this bar, confessed into the bottom of pint glasses and she shakes her head. "There you go, then," Mick says. "Makes you a better person than he ever was."

She necks the last swallow of her drink and pushes the glass away. "Wish it was that easy."

There was a girl from the old bar Dotty used to work at, back at home— back in Scotland. She was short and blonde and she used to lean over and pull Dotty's top down when she was working. It was a joke; it was funny. But they'd both known it was more than that. They had both felt the heat curling around them, through them; Dotty always felt herself looking a moment too long.

They had both known it was only a matter of time. They had both known that one day the air would break and Dotty would kiss her and she'd hold on, for once. 

(And then Dotty fucked up. Like she always fucks up.

If she hadn't, they would have their little flat up in the hills. They'd watch movies and Dotty would blast music at midnight and they'd have a cat and—

She would wake up in the morning and not feel fucking lonely, for once.

She thinks about it a lot. Not feeling lonely.

Alternate universes where she isn't a Cotton. But then she wouldn't have Dot, so maybe it's worth it. Maybe.)

-

E20 has only just opened, this time in the afternoon. She's the first one in.

Ben is behind the bar, polishing glasses. He looks up at the sound of the door, bathed in blue light and harsh shadow and smiles when he sees her. "Day drinking?"

"Job hunting." Some techno music is playing quietly in the background, waiting for the sun to go down before it gets loud and the spotlights start roaming and the karaoke machine comes out. Mick's right, it's not flash at all, but with a lick of paint, a ladies' night? She's studying business at uni, after all; it'd be nice to have something to practice on. "But if you're offering, a drink wouldn't go amiss."

He reaches up to the rack and pulls down a glass. "Come round here and make it yourself. If it's any good, you can start tonight."

It takes her a second but she catches on. "What, you own this place?"

"My inheritance." He grins, arms raised but there's a sourness to his voice, like he's won bronze and trying to see the bright side of coming third. "Now Sharon's dropped the sprog and the other owner buggered off, I'm in charge."

She tilts her head; Ben looks good behind a bar, it suits him. "I swear your family owns half the Square."

He nods. "Gotta build an empire somehow. Even if it is a couple of bars and a dodgy car lot."

"We've all gotta start somewhere." It's not like she's never built herself up from nothing before.

She makes the best Cosmopolitan he's ever tasted and makes about seventy quid in tips that night, and Ben smiles at her and says _blimey, where have you been all this time?_ and she smiles so hard her face starts to hurt.

-

Dot was so much stronger last time Dotty lived here. She didn't shuffle around, like she does now. She didn't make Dotty worry like she does now.

Now she's older and she's starting to forget things; just little things, like her birthday or the fact she's put a pie in the oven and there's now smoke billowing out, filling up the kitchen like a fog machine. She looks at Dotty sometimes like it takes her a second or two to place who she is, and it's awful. Dotty used to sit at the kitchen table and smile at her, shy and trusting. She's been away for so, so long.

Dot says, "Anyone special in your life, darling?"

"What?" Dotty pauses.

"Gorgeous girl like you." The cigarette between her fingers has burnt down to the filter, the smoke thin and wispy. "I didn't snatch you away from anyone, did I?"

The last person Dotty dated was a guy. He had dark hair and darker eyes and was nearly thirty, and got pissed because Dotty didn't want to move in with him. They broke up six months ago: long before Dot turned up, before she said _I've got room in the car if you fancy it._

It wasn't, like, a big deal as far as break-ups go. It just happened. She got dumped, and so she went out and found a girl with dark eyes and didn't think about it anymore.

"Just you, grandma," she smiles, placing a hand on Dot's shoulder. It's all bone, all corners beneath her fingers. "Only got eyes for you."

-

Ben is, accidentally, Dotty's friend. It's not really the kind of thing people approve off—Dot sucks her teeth a bit when Dotty first mentions him—but she likes him. She understands him; they've both got shit addict dads and mums who were dead until they suddenly weren't and he's kind to her, when he doesn't have to be.

He's got a mate, Jay, and a sort-of-but-not-really boyfriend, Callum, and they both work at the undertakers, which Dotty doesn't find out until they both turn up to the club in their matching suits and she has a mini heart attack because she thinks they're, like, bailiffs or something. (Which makes Ben hoot with laughter because _look at 'em, Dotty, they couldn't hit water if they fell out a boat._) Jay's a good laugh and Callum's harmless, and it's nice; they don't think about who she should be. It's not like everybody else who expects something of her, expects her to be like—like _Nick_. Ben just loves Callum, and Callum loves Ben and Jay likes the same music as her, and that's about it.

(They try to ignore the whole Nick-blackmailing-Billy thing. Jay's nice about it, though. He's cool.)

They have nights after E20 closes where Ben sits with Dotty and they just talk. About his ex who was murdered, about her being roped into trying to poison her grandma; about Phil's drinking and Nick's heroin and that time he held them all hostage in the cafe and nearly blew Bradley Branning's eye out. About Ben standing over his dad's hospital bed and squeezing the tube. 

Dotty likes the way Ben looks when he talks about Callum, which is a lot: a little bit bitter and a little bit in awe but mostly tired, and in love.

Sometimes they talk about all the ways they fucked up. The things they did wrong. Sometimes Dotty cries. Sometimes Ben does.

It sounds kinda sad, and it is; but then there are those Friday nights where the club is heaving and her new playlist is blasting through the speakers and four people have bought her shots so she's ever so slightly tipsy and Ben is beside her, crescent-eyed, looking like trouble.

(They're doing a round of shots with a hen party one night, both strung out of their minds on tequila when Ben leans down and shouts over the music, _we're gonna rule the fucking Square, me and you_. 

It might have been the booze but in that moment, under those lights, she believes him.)

It's just—he doesn't ask anything from her, and she doesn't ask anything from him, and it just makes things so easy. It's nice to have someone like him.

-

She crashes at the Mitchells' one night, because it's two in the morning and waking Dot at this hour would probably cause a health condition.

The sofa is lumpy but she's short so it could be a futon if she imagines hard enough. But then she opens her eyes and there's a little blonde girl staring back at her, arms folded across her chest, like she thinks Dotty's going to be a problem.

"Oh," Dotty yawns. "Hello."

The girl eyes her warily, in the way of Mitchells everywhere. It might be the bad lighting or the way her bottom lip sticks out but Christ, she looks so like her dad.

"Who are you?" she asks. She's in bright pink pyjamas and has a gap between her two front teeth.

Dotty brushes hair out of her face and shuffles further beneath the duvet—it's cold down here. "I'm a mate of your dad's. Dotty. I'm guessing you're Lexi?"

Another suspicious beat and then Lexi nods, proud.

"Mmhmm." Her head's still banging and it can't be any later than like, four o'clock. "Thought so. He talks about you a lot."

That makes Lexi smile—makes her beam like a sun. "Really?"

She's still really drunk. Her eyes are pretty much closed and her head's back on the pillow and the moonlight's streaming in through the half-drawn curtains. "Says you're the best thing that ever happened to him."

Lexi's so small. She's so small and doe-eyed but Dotty can already see the Mitchell in her: it's as obvious as a tattoo. Whether it's a good thing or not—well, that's a debate for the ages. She'd had that conversation with Ben many times in the small hours of the morning. Lexi opens her mouth to ask another question but then another mop of blonde hair pokes itself around the door and hisses _Lex, what are you doing up? _and _back to bed, now_ and _sorry about that, Dotty_ and Dotty says it's fine because it is. It's nice to see Ben with a family, with something to fight for. It makes him feel like less of a mess, like he might make something of himself that isn't being Phil Mitchell's son. 

She wonders if she'll ever be more than a Cotton. It seems like a long shot sometimes, but—if Ben can, why can't she?

(But Ben hasn't yet. He still looks at Phil like he hung the moon, still waits for Phil to look back.

She doesn't want to be the person who tells him that he probably never will.)

Lola Pearce—Jay's girlfriend and Lexi's mum, that's certainly a close family—hasn't changed a bit. Dotty only remembers the shape of her vaguely, the platinum-blonde hair and the ugly clothes but then she sees Lola that morning over the breakfast table and it's honestly like she never left.

"You're back, then," Lola says.

_No shit._ "Yeah," Dotty says, buttering a piece of toast. "That alright with you?"

Lola shrugs. "Couldn't care less." Her mouth twists downwards at the corner. "Long as you and Ben don't cause too much havoc."

"I'll keep him in check."

Ben's still asleep upstairs. They can hear his hooty little snores through the ceiling.

The kettle boils and Lola lets out a scoff as she goes and gets it, pours two mugs of coffee. "No one can keep Ben in check. Trust me, we've been trying for years."

-

She goes to the Vic before E20 opens, more to just say hello to Mick than anything. She's become close to the Carters—well, Mick and Shirley. The wife's a bit of a nightmare but Mick loves her, and that's all the matters, really.

Mick says, "Oi, Dotty, you ain't see Halfway, have you?"

Dotty blinks at him. "Halfway."

"Oh— _Callum_." It makes her heart ache, just for a second: she thinks she's getting close, you know, starting to get to know people, but then these little details spring up and she feels like a stranger again, walking into the bar and not recognizing a single face. "Y'know, Ben's other half."

She smirks and slides onto a bar stool. "Thought they weren't official yet."

"They aren't," he smiles, "but they were in that booth over there the other day and by the end of the night, I were surprised the seats didn't have lovebites, too."

He buys her a drink (perks of being Mick Carter's favourite: he doesn't mind parting with his stock) and they clink their glasses together.

"He's a bad influence," he says, "Ben Mitchell."

Dotty suppresses an eye-roll. "He's alright, Mick," she says, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes. "He's taught me a lot."

"What, about ripping folk off?" He's wry. She's been here a while now and she's started to hear all the stories, like how Callum accidentally shot him that one time and then he went to prison for shooting Callum's brother and something about turning up to a wedding in his dressing gown? 

"Yeah, well," she says, smiling. "It's a useful skill, isn't it?"

He shakes his head. "You be careful," he says. "You've got a good nut on your shoulders. You just make sure you keep it there, yeah?"

She nearly splutters on her drink, a little startled. "I— thanks, Mick."

"Nah, don't thank me." Mick's got four kids, and three of them have moved away and she can see it in his eyes sometimes, just how much he misses them. Misses someone to talk to. "Knock 'em dead."

Callum is crying in the alley behind the Vic. Just—shaky little sobs.

Dotty steps forward and places a hand on his arm, keeping her mouth closed because she's not very good with this: emotions and stuff. Callum feels very tired, hollow-boned and light, like a strong wind will whisk him away. She knows that isn't true, not from what she's heard: Callum is one of the strongest of them all, really, but seeing him like this is still kind of heartbreaking.

"Ignore me," he eventually says, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. "Just being dramatic."

She pulls tissues from her bag and hands them over. "You think Ben would ever forgive me if I left you like this?"

The mere mention of Ben is enough to make him smile. 

"Honestly, it's nothing."

She tilts her head, gives him a knowing look. "I cry in dirty alleys over nothing, too." That's only partially a lie: she cried in a McDonald's, once. She was really drunk. 

Callum sniffs and says, "It's just—a lot's happened, really quickly." And then, softly, "I think I'm doing alright and then something else happens and I'm back at square one." 

She knows what it is: Ben had told her, that morning. Callum's phone lit up over breakfast and it was a text from his dad, who if the anecdotes are anything to go by is a complete psycho, and Dotty kind of wishes she'd come home a bit earlier because there was the wedding that went to shit and the reception that went to even further shit and she's not like Callum, or Ben: she's never worried about who she is and who she loves. She's simply looked at people and fallen in love and that's all that she cares about.

She can't imagine what it's like to be that scared.

"Make you a deal," Dotty says, taking the pack of tissues back. "If you don't talk to Ben, you have to talk to me."

He pauses like he's trying to see if she's joking, but then he smiles a little bit and says, "Yeah, that sounds alright." 

-

Some days are worst than others; some days Dot barely recognises her, and on those days it's Dotty trying to hold it together; it's Dotty feeling like she needs a stiff drink. 

"You know," Dot says, chopping a carrot, "if you ever want to go home, just tell me—"

Her hands are shaking.

Dotty takes the knife from her, and starts chopping. "It's fine," she says. "I'd rather be here than anywhere else."

"I miss him," Dot says, suddenly. Her voice is all distant and far away. "I—it was the right thing to do but I keep thinking, what if I hadn't. What if I'd— there's all this time I could have had, all these things I could've done—" She trails off, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

"You're back home now," Dotty says. "That's the important thing."

-

_can u just come to the club_, Ben texts. _theres only room 4 1 dickhead in this friendship & its me._

It's one o'clock on a Monday morning and E20's just kicked out for the night. Today was supposed to be her day off but then Billy fell down a manhole or something and broke his ankle and Ben's way too much of a party animal to stay sober and man the bar by himself.

She gets there to help him clean up. He's a bit drunk, and sways as they walk out and into the street, head tipped back to look at the stars. 

"You've got to talk to him," Dotty says. They both instantly know who she's talking about because there is only one _him _when it comes to Ben. "You're getting—you're doing that thing with your eyes."

Ben frowns. "What thing?" He brings a hand up to feel at his face. "My face is fine."

She sighs, turns round and locks the double doors. "You're stressing out. And you don't do that like a normal person, Ben. No offence."

"That's not fair," he whines.

"Two words," Dotty says, flat. "Phil. Keanu."

Ben sulks and looks down at his feet, his new shoes that now have a dark stain where a whiskey bottle went toppling. It's lucky they've been watering it down for the past month or she'd probably be more pissed off.

She sighs; it's moments like this she knows she's never been in love, not properly. Nobody has ever made her fall apart the way Callum does Ben. "I know you're worried about him."

"It's just," Ben begins, words a little slurry and sloshed. "There's so much he's not telling me, y'know? _So _much. I can tell. And he gets upset when I ask. And—he bottles things up. He bottles thing up and doesn't say anything and he leaves it too _late_."

Dotty chews on her lower lip. She's never been good at giving advice. "Ben— Callum's my mate too. I don't know what to tell you."

"I'm scared," he says, quietly. She thinks there might be tears in his eyes. "I'm scared, Dot. I think he doesn't trust me. And I'm scared that someone's hurt him."

"You need to talk to him." She can do this, though: she can reach up on her tiptoes and wrap her arms around him, because she can tell he hasn't been hugged anywhere near enough in his lifetime and neither has she, not really. "You've gotta tell him how you feel."

"What if he lies to me?" he says, softly, into her hair. "Dotty, I— I don't want him to lie to me anymore."

She doesn't say anything back. They just stand there for a minute or two, swaying slightly in the breeze, her face in the crook of his neck and his hand in her hair and she doesn't think she's ever had a friend like this. Someone she thinks she'd die for; someone she thinks would die for her.

"Have you ever been in love?" Ben asks.

She and Callum might as well move into the Mitchell house, they spend so much time here. Dotty makes them both a strong coffee and Ben sits at the kitchen table with his head against the wood, shoulders rising and falling slowly as he tries to stop the world from spinning. The words are muffled and she has to stop mid-pour to make sure she heard him right.

"Here," she says, places the mug down. "Drink."

Ben shakes his head. He's pale, two spots of colour high on his cheeks. He stinks of vodka, too; they can't risk Lexi seeing him like this. "I'm hammered, Dotty. Like—really fucking hammered."

She stirs in two sugars. "I know."

"You didn't answer my question." He cricks his neck and takes a swallow of his coffee: super bitter, how he likes it. "Have you?"

Dotty wraps her hands around the mug, lets it warm her up. "No, not really," she admits. "I've had boyfriends and girlfriends and stuff, but—nothing serious. Nothing like you and Callum." The fact they aren't actually dating is irrelevant, really. 

"I know it's stupid to be scared," Ben sighs. "But I am. I'm so scared."

The ring on his finger catches the dim light of the overhead bulb, shines like a shattered rock. She's seen the little scar underneath it where Paul's name once sat, and sometimes she likes to wonder what Paul was like and wish she could have met him, but then she remembers what happened to him and she doesn't want to see Ben like that. Black and blue, miserable. Jumping at shadows that aren't there.

She places her hand onto his, gentle. "What even happened that got you here? You two looked happy enough the other day."

"I was really, really drunk." He's twirling the ring around his finger absentmindedly. "Like, really drunk. Like now drunk but worse." He hiccups. "I wasn't drunk a few hours ago, though. When I kissed him in front of everyone."

Ah. Things start slotting into place.

"I was completely sober," he continues, sitting up. "And I kissed him in the middle of the club like a— a fucking idiot. I didn't ask him or owt, I just— just _did_ it and he didn't do anything for a bit and then he legged it. He proper legged it, Dotty. I fucked it up. So now I'm wasted."

She sighs, long and quiet. Her finger traces shapes on the back of his hand. 

He looks so broken. "I hate this," Ben says, quiet and fervent. "I ruin everything. I always ruin everything."

The clock on the wall ticks over to half-two and it's fine, she doesn't need sleep; she works in a nightclub and her best friend is a gay disaster and for the first time in her life she doesn't feel lonely. "You're alright," she smiles. "I promise, yeah? You can't ruin everything. Especially not for sommat as small as that. I got talked into trying to murder my grandma by my dad, and then I changed my mind and tried to murder my dad, and when he found out he locked us all in your mum's cafe and blew it up." She pauses. "I called the police on my grandma at some point, too. And my name isn't even Dotty. It's Kirsty."

Ben goes quiet for a bit, the cogs turning visibly in his head. Then, "And they say I'm the bad role model."

"Love you too, mate."

He sighs. "He just—the way he looked at me. It was awful, Dot. He was terrified."

"This is Callum we're talking about, right? He's tougher than you think. Tougher than _he_ thinks he is, too."

"What are we, then? Soft?"

"Wouldn't go that far," she winks at him, eyes light. 

"I'm gonna be sick," Ben says, abruptly, then is. He flies to the sink just in time, the chair clattering behind him; the noise makes Dotty's teeth itch. 

She stands up and rubs his back, smooth little circles. "At least you missed your shoes."

He's _so_ drunk. "What?"

"Don't worry," Dotty says. She thinks she might be smiling, just a little. "I've got you."

She stays the night on the sofa again and in the morning he trails down the stairs, wearing Lola's dressing gown and the bags under his eyes looking like bruises. Lexi is on her second bowl of cereal and Dotty made her chocolate spread on toast because it's a Monday, and nobody likes Mondays.

All of them look up when Callum walks in. The smiles falter.

"I'm going for a shower," Ben says, disappearing back up the stairs like someone's lit a firecracker under his arse. Dotty rolls his eyes because god, why won't they just _talk_, but that's also a bit mean—the way Ben was last night, the way his face creased at the mention of Callum's name? He's in so deep. 

Callum looks like he's having a mini breakdown. "Lola?" His voice sounds so small. "Dotty, is he—?"

"He's alright," she says, picking up the empty plates. "Just hungover. Like— really hungover. Give him until at least midday before you try and get somewhere."

That seems to satisfy him a little, but he's still so nervous. "Is it—about me?" He's got that nervous shiver about him, the bunched-up shoulders and shuffling from foot to foot.

She resists the urge to say _of course it is_, and _it's always about you._ "Like I said," she goes with in the end. "Talk to him later."

-

There's a knock at the door. Dotty is on her laptop at the kitchen table, everything else silent. University is in full swing and if she has to write any more essays on project management she's probably going to end up hurting someone. 

She gets up, pulls the door open.

Callum is standing there, in his undertaker suit. "Hey," he smiles, but it's a half-hearted smile and his eyes instantly dart to the space around her, behind her, searching. "It's midday, is he alive yet?"

It's so transparent Dotty almost laughs; but it's not like Callum's really trying to hide it at all, not like Ben says he used to—proposing to his girlfriend the day after shagging him in a park, that level of hiding it. Not with the way his eyes are searching for someone in the living room and the anxious flutter of his hands and Ben, on the sofa, who now smells less like vodka and more like Lola's pomegranate and lemon body wash. 

Dotty keeps her mouth straight. "Are you actually gonna talk about things?"

Callum swallows. "Yeah."

One thing about Callum she quite likes, he can't lie. Not when it comes to Ben. "Gimme a sec. Wait here."

"Ugh," Ben groans, lying flat on his back with his face buried sideways into a pillow. 

"You two are like a pair of teenagers," Dotty says. "What happened wasn't even that bad."

"You've missed out on so much," he says, with a humourless scoff. "I mean—_so_ much."

She smiles, and holds out her hand and pulls him up when he takes it. "And you can tell me about it all later. He'll be worth every risk you ever take for him." Her mind flutters to the girl from the bar in Scotland, the way she felt in her arms. "And all the ones you don't."

She can't resist eavesdropping; the walls are thin, it's not even her fault. She can't see anything but she hears through the door—the apologies, the tremor in Callum's voice when he says something about his dad and Stuart and— some guy called Chris, maybe? But then it goes quiet and feet shuffle forward and she hears them kiss; and it feels so familiar that she has to step away and turn back.

"Hey," Ben says, when Callum's gone back to work. He's got this look in his eyes, this slow dawning realisation that the world hasn't ended. "Thanks."

Dotty smiles, "Anytime," and she means it.

-

"Dotty," her grandma says. She's sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea. "Can I have a word, darling?"

Dotty blinks. "Of course." She sits down next to her, in the armchair.

"I don't remember my wedding day," Dot says, sudden. "I remember him, and I remember loving him, but— I don't remember marrying him."

Her heart feels kind of like it's going to break. She reaches down and grabs Dot's hand: she doesn't feel different. Her skin still feels the same.

Dot smiles at her, gentle, like sunshine through a grimy window on a winter's day. "I know you came back for me," she says. "And I'm grateful, Dotty. I love having you here. But please don't feel like you have to stay if you don't want to."

"Grandma—" she starts, weakly.

"Dotty," she says, kind. "If you want to go home, you can if you want."

"I don't want to go."

For the first time in her life, she doesn't want to run. That's a lie: part of her does. Part of her wants to run for the hills and disappear and be anonymous again, but the rest of her wants to stay. Wants to grow roots in this dusty old house and make something that isn't Nick's, or Dot's or her mum's. Something to hold close to her heart and call hers.

She needs to go to work. Her hands shake as she looks for her coat on the rack.

Dot puts a hand on her shoulder. "Take mine," she says. It's thick and beige and smells overwhelmingly like cigarette smoke, but it's warm and it's Dot's, and it might be all she has left in a few years.

She kisses Dot's cheek. "Thank you. For everything."

"Love you," Dot says. 

There's a picture of Nick on the wall, faded and framed. Dark eyes stare at her from behind the glass and it still makes her stomach churn, even now. She reaches up and plucks it off the wall, leaves it face-down on the mantlepiece and it feels like— it feels good. It feels like she might actually be able to do this.

"Everything smooth sailing between you two, now?"

Ben grins when she walks in. There's a few early drinkers in but it's still quiet, still chilled. Her voice echoes through the space, richochetting off of two soundproofed walls and a karaoke machine. "When's it ever smooth sailing between me and him?"

The club looks great. They're making a mint, even more so than before. Her name's on all the paperwork, next to his, co-owners _Ben Mitchell and Dotty Cotton_ and nothing has ever looked more right.

"Sounded like it went pretty well earlier," she points out, raising an eyebrow. 

He rolls his eyes, quiet for once in his life and pours her a drink: gin and tonic, double measure. "You our relationship counselor now?"

She laughs at the concept and takes a sip. "Get fucked. You two give me grey hairs."

"Well," he says. "Gotta find you a sweetheart now. Fancy checking out the Prince Albert later, before it gets too busy? I'm sure Billy can manage with his one foot."

The image of Billy hobbling around with one of his legs in that boot makes her laugh even more, head thrown back and god, she hasn't felt this easy and this light in so fucking long. Scotland was nice but it wasn't this, it wasn't—it wasn't home. She has never belonged anywhere like she does here, behind this bar with Ben fucking Mitchell, where everything's bright and nothing hurts.

"Yeah, go on, then," she nods, and he grins like he's just won the lottery. There it is. There's that Ben smile—all mischief, all ego.

He raises his glass and clinks it with hers. "To— to E20?"

"E20." she says. 

They drink them down in one.

-

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this began as a more light-hearted drabble and ended up an angsty character study i'm vry sorry. i haven't proofread either so enjoy any typos ♥
> 
> title from the last shadow puppets. come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/turnerkaness) and [tumblr](https://turnerkanes.tumblr.com)!


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